


Hooked

by RussianWitch



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, But mostly this is smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Somehow some character building creeped in., well period typical stereotyping anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>White knights who keep their hands to themselves are hard to come by. Not that anyone is complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooked

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd

Despite appearances, Illya doesn't get caught too often during their expeditions. He might stand out like a sore thumb on the street, but on missions he positively blends into the background. It irks Napoleon more than he cares to admit that Illya is better than him at that part of the game, except on the rare occasions the Russian gets caught.

Low level mission or not, Illya should have been more careful, then he wouldn't have ended up dangling off a hook in some attic room sans shirt for whatever reason, skin sickly yellowish in the harsh florescent light yet strangely attractive none the less. Having already dispatched all of their enemies at the location, Napoleon indulges his curiosity studying the powerful body in display. Illya likes to keep himself covered, doesn't like the beach, and does his ablutions at odd times probably just to mess with Napoleon who'd at first made an effort to try get a glimpse. "Don't you stand there Cowboy! Get me down!" The irate Russian orders, only to be ignored. Napoleon is enjoying the sight too much: powerful muscle strained and pulled taunt, blue eyes flashing in anger.

"What's in it for me?" Napoleon finally asks, considering if he can afford to come closer, or should stay out of range of legs that go on for miles and kick like a mule when properly motivated.

"I not kill you when free." Illya offers conversationally, and Napoleon suppresses a shiver.

"You'd miss me, Peril." 

That gets him a snort, then a short, sharp laugh almost setting Napoleon at ease, lull him into a false sense of security, looking for a chance to strike. "Maybe, maybe not: one way to find out." He must not know what the way he twists his hips, drawing attention to the bulge at his crotch, does to a man, Napoleon thinks. Had he seen a man strike a similar pose in one of the discrete clubs he'd occasionally found himself visiting for business purposes, he would have had said man pressed against the nearest convenient wall, opening him up to take Napoleon's cock. Any hole in a storm and all that, he's never been particularly picky even if women were far easier to come by.

Not that Illya could ever be mistaken for one of the effete, delicate things who haunt the clubs: a wolf, not a puppy looking for a leash. Still, something keeps shifting in Napoleon's perception of the man: like a kaleidoscope constantly making new patterns out of the same basic pieces with every turn. Gaby, hasn't managed a similar trick, not that he had been particularly interested in the first place.

"That's not much of an incentive." He purrs imagining those deadly legs wrapped around his waist and Illya throws his head back in ecstasy.

"What you expect? Me swooning in your arms? A kiss for the hero?" He licks his lips, and Napoleon realizes that: yes, he kind of does want that.

"Wouldn't hurt." With the front view as it is, Napoleon has almost forgotten about the existence of the back view. Now, he kind of wants to see it as well. Edging along the perimeter of the room, he circles his captive, amused at Illya's refusal to even turn his head to follow his progress. "I've always liked to think of myself as the white knight."

"What your game, Cowboy?" Illya growls, the muscles of his back tensing and releasing one after another.

"Will you kick me if I come closer?" He asks in return.

"Maybe..." The Russian answers somehow managing to shrug in his bonds.

"Maybe not?" Napoleon finishes with amusement, but steps forward anyway, reaching up to lay a hand on cool skin right between the shoulder blades.

"Maybe." Illya chuckles, and doesn't move when Napoleon leans forward laying his cheek against Illya's back.

"You're impossible, Peril." He sighs, planting wet, open-mouth kisses across the Russian's shoulders.

"Yes." The bound man agrees easily, almost sounding proud of the fact.

"Tell me to stop." Napoleon orders, sucking on skin that tastes of sweat, cheap soap and wild animal. Illya remains conspicuously silent, unmoving like a statue: Napoleon's personal work of art, with him in the role of Pygmalion. Tracing Illya's waistband, he walks his fingers around Illya's front rubs at the button of the Russian's slacks..."Did they?" He suddenly has to know before he can go on, absurdly hesitant now that the thought has entered his head.

"They did not." Illya assures him almost kindly, like he isn't the one hanging from the ceiling getting molested. There is a strange inflection on the 'they', but Napoleon forces that aside to be deal with when they have alcohol, and the room to beat each other senseless if they feel like it.

"Good to know." He forces out of his tight throat, clawing the slacks open, dragging them down to expose cock and ass, then further down to shackle the already bound man at the knees. A fat, dick and ass Napoleon is sure he could bounce a quarter off, everything a boy could want to play with. He kneads the pale globes, spreads them open to look at the pink opening hidden between them. The sight makes him inexplicably hungry for something he'd never considered before.

Dropping to his knees is easier without the wolf's eyes on him. He nuzzles at the small of Illya's back on the way down, only to discover to his annoyance that the angle is wrong for any in-depth exploration.

"What the hell did the KGB feed you, Peril?" Napoleon growls in annoyance, "You're too damn tall."

"You talk too much, Cowboy." Illya growls, spreading his legs as far as he can with his slacks around his knees, arches his back to give Napoleon a better view of the entrance to his body. "Do!" He orders, and Napoleon wonders when he lost control of the situation.

"I want to fuck you." He demands, or maybe begs against Illya's hip, drunk on the arrogant bastard's sheer presence. "Then I want to go back to the hotel where I can get you on a damn bed, and eat that ass of yours without spraining my neck."

It is the first time he hears Illya laugh out loud: a full belly laugh full of joy and amusement. He allows himself a chuckle, then proceeds to bite his way up Illya's spine, his dick at Illya's ass and the nasty realization that he'll have to get on tip toe to get a proper fucking in. "This is going to hurt." He warns, remembering that they don't have any lube.

"Then you better make it worth my while." Illya shrugs, and again a thread of discomfort runs through Napoleon. He doesn't comment, sucks two fingers into his mouth wetting them as best he can with saliva before pushing against the entrance of Illya's body.

The Russian growls and pants, but his body yields as Napoleon works to open him up: welcoming rather than rejecting. Sheathing himself in the larger body, takes some effort and Illya's cooperation: Napoleon pushes into tight heat that feels like it can squeeze his dick right off. Illya doesn't make a sound while Napoleon works himself inside despite the fact that it must hurt at least some. He wraps his arms around the big body, buries his face in Peril's back and starts a slow fuck intent on driving them both insane before the night is out. His calves are going to be in agony come morning: Illya Kuryakin his own personal exercise machine, all Napoleon can do is grit his teeth and try to get get both of them off already so they can move location.

"I want to watch you come, Peril! You can do that for me, can't you?" He twists his hips, experimenting with different angles until Illya practically growls when Napoleon finds the right spot. Growls louder and louder as Napoleon picks up the pace, straining against the bonds as if he can break them if he tries hard enough. "Come for me, Illyusha!" He orders digging his fingers into the flesh of Illya's hip, ramming himself into the Russian as far as he can, and Illya for once does as ordered with a tortured howl. The sheer rush of having made the wolf come with just his dick, helps Napoleon over the edge as well rocking himself into the ass spasming around him as Illya shudders through the aftermath of his own orgasm.

Releasing Illya from his bonds is almost an afterthought, with his dick still hanging out Napoleon picks the locks on Illya's cuffs catching the heavy body as it slumps against him. They end up on the cold floor as Illya checks his control over various limbs. Embarrassingly, Napoleon finds himself petting messy, blond hair while they both get their breath back. "Not bad, Cowboy." Illya finally judges batting Napoleon's hand away and rising from the floor to pull up, and fasten his slacks. Before Napoleon can talk himself into getting off the floor as well, a hand is offered unexpectedly: Illya effortlessly pulling him to his feet, and against his half naked body, one shovel-like hand clamping onto Napoleon's jaw to keep him in place as Illya licks into his mouth, owns him with a simple kiss that ends with Napoleon crowded against the wall. "You will clean the mess you made, once we are back at the hotel." Illya decides, and that—Napoleon _had_ offered, and really just the thought of licking his own come off Illya's flesh, _out of him_ as the Russian writhes across silk sheets howling for more. "Demanding—" He complains, feeling amusement, and a twinge of fear when Illya's grip tightens.

"Know what I want." Illya shrugs not taking the bait, but tugging at Napoleon's collar ripping several buttons off his shirt to make room for a bite-mark at Napoleon's throat.

"Good to know." He groans, as Illay licks away the sting of his teeth.

"Find me shirt!" The Russian orders pulling away before Napoleon is good and ready for him to do so. Still catching his breath, he watches Illya study the guards who's still lying unconscious on the floor.

"Find one yourself, I'm enjoying the show." Napoleon snaps, annoyed at being deprived.

"So will most of Antwerp once we leave." Not that the prospect seems to bother Peril any. Napoleon finds that it does bother him, he finds himself feeling inexplicably possessive of the half naked man. "Let's go before anyone realizes this location was compromised." The Russian rises, after searching the body, gun in hand sending another bolt of arousal through him. "Come on, Cowboy!" He disappears down the hallway before Napoleon can set himself to right properly, and he has no choice but to check his gun and follow along.

The anticipation of the fun they will be having once they are home, keeping him from getting too annoyed when Peril starts critiquing his restraining technique as they head for the exit.


End file.
